


a little too far to hurt

by mirrorchord



Category: Original Work
Genre: BDSM, Dubious Consent, F/M, Flash Fic, Penetrative Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-02-05 03:15:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1803274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirrorchord/pseuds/mirrorchord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>two random, unnamed, idfic characters meet in the dark. vaguely woman, vaguely eldritch abomination takes advantage of unassuming nerd boy</p><p>(in writing, these characters took on the unclear shapes of gerard way and tilda swinton in my head. your mileage may vary.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	a little too far to hurt

**Author's Note:**

> this is the kind of experimental, self-indulgent shit that happens at 1 am, motivated by angry determination to write something no matter—and because of—how terrible it is. i wrote until i felt like stopping, so if the stopping point isn't stopping point–like enough that's why
> 
> also i have written like two sex scenes in my life
> 
> content warnings: i went into this with the intention of "write something extremely noncon, without trying too hard to make it ethical." so uh. it has a lot of noncon elements, even if the more graphic sexual bits are very short. it may be hard to read if you've experienced sexual abuse or are sensitive to those issues. please do what is best for you ♥
> 
> ETA: haha i deleted this not too long ago in a fit of embarrassment, and then today i was like "fuck it" and put it back up. have fun :D

He goes a long way before he realizes she’s following him.

It’s a dark patch of the city, and even though this is the road that runs straight through from suburbia to downtown to grand central college kid hangout, it is 2 am. He’s a pretty confident walker—okay, not really; he doesn’t have very much in the way of self-defense, but what are the chances of anything happening? He’s self-sufficient, is what he is. If he just keeps his head up and walks fast, he’ll be fine. He doesn’t need anyone’s goddamn help.

He’s just passed through the tunnel when she calls out. “Hey, kid,” she says. “You got any change?”

He barely glances up through his fringe. “Uh, no, sorry, I don’t have anything,” he says.

She steps out into the path. “You sure?” she says, and he sizes her up real quick, panic rising. “You don’t have  _anything_?”

He waits a beat. Dramatic timing, maybe, will help him. He’s nothing but a storyteller. “No.”

Oh god, oh god, he hopes she’ll move. He takes a cautious, light, hopefully unnoticeable step to the side—maybe he can just walk around her and past, and it’ll be over.

She grabs his arm. “Well,” she says, tilting her chin up and looking down at him. “Well, in that case, I guess you’ll just have to make up for it.”

“What the fuck,” he says, voice rising. Fuck, he’s screwed. He’s lost. What’s she gonna do? Does he have  _anything_? A phone? Is anyone here? Oh god, the police kill people, it’s been in the news, he doesn’t want to get killed.

She smiles at him, and he shakes.

“I don’t let anyone past here without a token,” she says. “A tribute, some dues paid, you know—“ she waves a dismissive hand.

Wow, he is tripping balls. What is this, some high fantasy mythological shit?

Well, at least he’s got some familiarity with the script. “Oh,” he says. “Can I answer a riddle?”

“Hah.” She shows some teeth. “A clever one.”

“Er, no—yes, I’m pretty smart, I could probably—“

“No,” she says. “what I want from you requires no smarts at all.” And she pulls him into the dark, behind the bridge. “All you need to get past me is your body.” She puts a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Will you use it to run, or will you give it to me?”

That’s it. That’s his cue to run. But she’s giving him  _permission_ , that can’t be a good idea.

He stays put.

“Well,” she says. And oh, he’s really starting to hate that. “Good choice.” She traces her fingers down his pointy collarbones, lightly pushes his shirt off his shoulder. “You must really want it.”

Fuck,  _fuck_ , he should have run. He makes an aborted, delayed attempt to duck out of the framing circle of her arms, fast.

She slams him back against the pillar. “ _Really_ ,” she says. “Now you run? The contract has been initiated,” she rubs her thumb idly over the newly bared skin of his shoulder, “audited, signed.” She spits.

The spit lands in the hollow of his throat, and he flinches. She smiles. “Any defiance now is just license and acknowledgment.”

She brushes the saliva back up and rubs it into his skin, back and forth, and then she goes for his shirt buttons. She takes her time, undoes them one by one. Lets his shirt fall open in the cool night air.

She steps closer, presses her ragged, fine coat against his naked body. “You don’t even know, do you,” she says.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t breathe. He can feel her dick against him.

“No, you don’t,” she continues, without waiting for a response. And then she  _pushes_.

He’s pulled up straight against the cold concrete, and then he’s falling. He’s falling for way longer than he should be. He’s down on the grass in the twilight dimness, trees crackling ominously around him, seeing sparks. Everything is a lot greener than it was. Everything is a lot greener than it ever is in New Mexico.

He’s not cold at all.

She smiles again, and in this light she looks different. The coat’s not ragged anymore; the silk of her pants is untouched, but dark enough that he’s not sure it’s there for real.

“I told you you made the right choice,” she says, and it’s true, he’d be  _delighted_  to see this any other way—but he wasn’t exactly prepared to make a deal with the nature demon. Or whatever. Especially not a deal that involved—sex slavery? Would he even be able to get back? Was he going to spend the rest of his life here, for some immortal creep to touch him and make him her vessel, her  _thing_?

What the fuck is going on, it’s three am.

He goes for his phone, just to check. Suddenly her hand is around his wrists, pulled up sharp. She kicks him to the ground, covers him with her body. Digs the nails of her other hand under his chin, into his hair—all too fast, he can’t move. His head is tilted back for air. She licks a finger, pleased.

She sits up, lets up, and his body follows. He can’t move. He tries to pull a knee up for leverage, but his legs are frozen. His face twists. “Please let me,” he says.

“No,” she says, and undoes the button to his pants. She appears to lose her patience. Her face warps angrily, and she shreds his pants off with bare claws. If he could move, he would scramble away, pathetic and desperate.

She slams his hips down into the grass, as if she knows. She unzips her long coat. She hovers over him, her dick just barely touching the skin between his legs, and he closes his eyes.

“That’s right,” she whispers, and rubs up close. “You see what I can do.”

“Yes, yes,” he says, fast and hopeless, “I believe you, I understand, please let me go—“

She shoves into him, suddenly. She watches.

He loses it. “Oh god, please, I promise, I just don’t want—I don’t,” he says, and he sounds like he’s crying.

She pushes up, pulls away just a bit. “You don’t?” she says.

“No, no,” and now his eyes are wide open, just barely hopeful.

“Sucks for you,” she says, and it almost makes him laugh in surprise before she pushes back.

But his hips lift up, and his foot drags on the grass, and he realizes he can move. He can get away.

He pulls his legs up under him, and then he pushes back, half-escapes from under her.

She bares her teeth. “Don’t you  _dare_ ,” she says. She puts a hand on his throat, a foot on his ankle, claws right under his dick.

“You’re scared?” she says, as if there’s anything else he’s been in the last half hour. As if she’s only just declared victory. “I’m going to take this,” she says. She rubs her claws up against him, almost into him. Threatening. “I’ll just open you up,” and oh, that scraped—“make you more  _suitable_  for me. Make you what you’re supposed to be. You’re not supposed to fight back, you know,” she continues, casually, conversationally.

“I could make you  _beg_  for it. Every time, until you were broken open. But you know,” she says, pushing a finger into his mouth, claw on his tongue—“I don’t want to bother. That’s so much work, and, well, I don’t have to. I’ve always enjoyed this more.”

She pulls his jaw open wider, scratches fire on the roof of his mouth. “This way, I can break you every time.”


End file.
